


We had the stars, you and I

by blue_wonderer



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student!Len, Baseball Player!Barry, Crushes, Holding Hands, M/M, Secret Crush, mutual crushing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 12:06:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13635969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/blue_wonderer
Summary: Barry’s a Van Gogh, frenetic color and energy. Len’s a Picasso, not quite put together, his dimensions falling out of orbit.In which art student!Len has a secret, one-sided crush on baseball player!Barry. Except it may not be so one-sided.





	We had the stars, you and I

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "COLDFLASH college crush AU (love if it was from Len's pov)"

“So, this is where you’ve been,” Lisa says as she plops next to him on the metal seats. The stadium is only about half-filled so she leans back on her elbows on the row above her and kicks out her booted feet with a tinny _clank_. 

“I told you I was going to the game,” Len mutters, head his in hand and extremely bored. 

“Yeah, but I thought you were joking.” She waves a French-tipped hand at the field. “You hate baseball.” 

“I love baseball,” he says, mostly to be contrary.

She swivels her head at him, long curls curtaining over her shoulder. She squints. 

“What?” 

“You don’t even know the scoring system for baseball.” 

“Sure, I do. You score goals. Everyone knows that.” 

Lisa snorts, turning back to the game with an up-turned nose. “You score runs.“ 

"That can’t be right. Sounds ridiculous." 

Lisa sits back up and bumps her shoulder against his. "What are you doing here, really? Aren’t you busy being an overworked grad student? This is the first time I’ve seen you out of the library, studio, or work in months.” 

“I just wanted a break. I’m allowed to take breaks.” 

“You take breaks with Mick at a bar. Or by watching shark documentaries on Netflix. Not by inflicting baseball on yourself.”

He’s just about to turn to her to deliver some sarcastic comment when a different player walks up to bat. The player turns to look at the coach, giving the stand a view of the “ALLEN 14” emblazoned across the back of his jersey. Len sits up a little straighter, cataloging how the tight scarlet and gold uniform fits on his long legs. 

“Oh my God,” Lisa says way too loudly. 

“Shut up, Train Wreck,” he hisses. 

“You have a crush on a baseball player—” Lisa continues, positively gleeful. 

“Lise—” 

“Oh my God this is like—Lenny! This is like a _rom-com_!” 

“Lisa,” he warns, because now he’s missed the pitch and the outcome. The batter is still at the plate, and the umpire has shouted something, and even though this is Len's third time watching baseball it still all kind of sounds the same to him so hell if he understood it. 

“The is like a _teen_ rom-com—it’s great because you hate those. You’re the grumpy, reclusive, low-key hipster trash art student—” 

He shoves her shoulder, because murder is probably frowned upon during “America’s favorite pastime”. Unfortunately, his annoyance is inversely proportional to her amusement. 

“—and the dumb baseball jock—” 

“He’s not dumb,” he defends, a little too quickly, and a little too _out loud where other people can hear._ “I mean, he’s your supplemental instructor for chemistry, isn’t he?” 

Her laughter dies down and her eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, how did you know that?” He winces. Her eyes widen in realization. “Oh my God. That one time you picked me up from SI. That was last semester, Lenny.”

“So?” He frowns. 

“Have you been mooning over Barry since then?” 

“I don’t _moon_ ,” he scowls. 

“You have,” Lisa murmurs, something soft falling over her features. “I don’t think I’ve ever really seen you with a crush, Lenny. At least not this long. You usually, you know, just kind of go for it.”

_Why’s he different?_ Hangs in the air between them and Len just… honestly doesn’t know. 

Barry swings, connects, sends a hard hit all the way to the outfield. Some of the crowd come to their feet, shouting, urging him to _‘Run, Barry, Run!’_ He’s fast—the fastest on the team, Len had heard—so he makes it all the way to the third base, sliding in and just beating the throw. He stands up, brushes off the uniform so a cloud of red dust curls around him before disappearing into the breezy spring afternoon. He grins over at his teammates, cocky and sure. 

(If Len has drawn that smile in his sketchbook, just once, filled in his profile with watercolor so the lines of Barry were dream-like and unreachable, well, no one has to know.)

“It’s not a crush,” he insists. 

“Have you even talked to him?” 

Len chooses not to answer, pretending to be interested in the next batter. He has spoken to Barry, a few times, in passing, but it’s not like an art student and a science student slash baseball player run in similar circles—or even go to the same buildings. Telling his little sister _“we’ve said hi twice”_ sounds like the sort of the pathetic soppiness she would make fun of him for. 

Lisa is quiet for a moment before she hooks her arm into his. “Lenny,” she sighs, and she doesn’t sound mocking any more. Time ticks by. A pitch gets past the catcher and Barry steals home, barely diving under the tag. Lisa takes a breath. But instead of prodding, instead of picking at potential insecurities that could be easily reflected in herself, she says, “You’re such a jerk.” 

(Talking for them, even to each other, has always been hard. Len and Lisa were lucky that Granddad was able to take them in when he did, but Lewis had long since inflicted his damage.)

So, instead of opening up, instead of paltry reassurances, Len just drawls back, “Love you too, Train Wreck.” 

**

Len’s not quite sure how, a few days later, he finds himself in the student parking lot behind the dorms at nine-thirty at night, freezing his ass off while watching a crowd of undergrads giddily converge on Lisa, but he is and he _hates_ it. He wonders, for the umpteenth time, just how he got dragged into this.

_(It had actually gone something like this:_

_“You want to come with me to Summit Peak tonight to watch the meteor shower, Lenny?”_

_“What the hell—whatever that is, it cannot possibly be named Summit Peak. Those words mean the same thing.”_

_“It’s on the edge of town,” Lisa continues with a roll of her eyes at his indignance. “Up on some hills. Cisco says you can get a really good view of the stars up there.”_

_“I’ve literally never heard of this place and I’ve been here five years now,” Len sighs. “Sounds a little sketch, right? Dark hill? Secluded? Wait. Who’s Cisco?”)_

OK, so, he’s mostly here because Lisa was going out with some juniors and seniors in the middle of the night to some dark, shady place. He knows she can take care of herself. She grew up a little rough and mean, like he did. But he figures back-up doesn’t ever go remiss. Still, all he can think of is the portfolio piece he’s working on and how he’d really like some coffee and to not be freezing. 

Lisa introduces him to her friends and, really, how does a freshman make so many friends with upperclassmen? The only other freshman is a kid named Jax. Len waves back at their smiles and greetings and tries not to seem too standoffish while being standoffish. 

Also, he may spend a few seconds over-analyzing the cute kid she’d called Cisco. 

And then one of the women, Sara, says, “Hey, where’s Allen?” 

Len freezes for a second before turning a wary glare at his sister who is now smiling smugly at him. 

“Late,” another woman, Iris, groans. 

“I told him nine,” a man (Eddie? …maybe?) admits. “Thinking that maybe he’d get here by nine-thirty. I thought he’d be here by now.” 

“Nice,” another woman, Laurel, chuckles, walking up and throwing an arm around Sara’s shoulders. Len does know Laurel—they’d been in the same graduating class and they’d talked often enough for him to know that she had a little sister and that she’d gone on to the law school. 

Lisa turns a look to Cisco, who puts his hands up. “What?”

“Well,” Lisa practically purrs. “Barry’s _your_ roommate.” 

The realization of the full betrayal his little sister has enacted settles over him.

“Hey!” Barry shouts, waving at them as he jogs between the dorms. “Guys, I’m _so_ sorry—I’m so late, I know—”

“Only three minutes, actually,” another girl, Caitlin?, muses. 

“W-What?” Barry stutters then turns a wide-mouthed, startled look on Eddie. “You told me the wrong time! On purpose!” 

“Worked, didn’t it?” Eddie asks beatifically. 

They split up in two different vehicles—Jax’s truck and Iris’s Jeep. Except they have nine people and only enough seats to fit about six comfortably, seven in a pinch. This doesn’t seem to bother them overly much, though, and that’s how Len finds himself crammed uncomfortably in the back of Iris’s Wrangler, hip-to-hip with Eddie, Lisa in the front with Iris, and _Barry Freaking Allen_ climbing in to somehow sit with Len and Eddie. 

“I’m sorry about this,” Barry says, flashing a grin at him and Len’s still thinking of how he might render that look with his paints—the shadowed red-orange of Barry’s faded hoodie in the deep purple-blues of the night—when Barry unceremoniously turns and _sits in his lap_. 

OK, to be fair, Barry is sort of sitting on _both_ him and Eddie because there’s literally nowhere else to sit. 

“Comfy, Barry?” Iris asks, voice suggestive. Barry squints, like he’s suspicious but he’s not quite sure what he’s suspicious of. 

Iris cranks the Jeep and it shudders and rumbles all around them as she eases out of the campus, the truck with the rest of the group following. 

Barry looks down at him as they pick up speed on the roads that connect to the highway, smiling a little sheepishly. “Sorry about this, Len,” he says again, gesturing to their predicament. 

“Why aren’t you apologizing to me?” Eddie grumbles, playfully shoving at Barry. “How are you this heavy?” Barry rolls his eyes but otherwise ignores him, sharing a smile with Len that only he could see. 

And this, right here? This is why he never really talked to Barry. This is why he decided to only permit the occasional remote look. Because to have that smile turned on him, directly at him without the filter of distance, bares Len to the whole world like an exposed nerve. How can he touch this man, with his smiles and his eyes that don’t quite match any of the colors in Len’s palettes? The possibilities he’s been entertaining from afar, in the quiet spaces of his mind, in between the seconds, are suddenly, achingly at his fingertips. 

(Barry’s a Van Gogh, frenetic color and energy. Len’s a Picasso, not quite put together, his dimensions falling out of orbit.)

“You’ve been to some of my—our—games recently, yeah?” Barry asks. “I’ve seen you sometimes.” 

“I…” He trails off, startled at being caught and wholly unused to being tongue-tied. “Yeah, I mean—you know. I like… baseball.” 

Lisa turns around in her seat and grins wickedly at him. He’d like to glare at her, but Barry’s eyes are still only for him. 

“You’re an artist, right? I’ve seen your work for a couple of years now, you know,” Barry says. “At the university’s exhibitions and stuff.” 

“He’s downplaying it,” Iris calls from the front, her voice small in the rattle of the vehicle. “He bought a piece at the last exhibit. He has it up in his dorm.” 

Barry lifts his shoulders, sheepish, and Len honestly doesn’t know what to do with this information. He decides on smirking up at Barry, who runs a hand nervously through his hair. 

But then they hit the highway and the shaking rumble of the Jeep kicks up to a roar. It doesn’t help that Iris’s window is stuck open two inches, so the wind blows in and makes the drive even more mind-numbingly loud. 

_(“What good are you, Barry—and Cisco and Jax, for that matter—if you can’t fix my damn window!”)_

They drive like that, freezing and unable to really talk without screaming, for a subjective eternity that is really about fifteen minutes. And then Iris takes them off the highway and on a bumpy dirt road, and then, even more worryingly, completely off any discernible road and up a muddy hill. Barry is thrown back and sideways as soon as they hit an incline, ending more on Len than Eddie, and Len unthinkingly throws an arm around Barry’s middle to keep him steady, feeling Eddie also reach over to do the same. It quickly becomes apparent why they had forced everyone in a Jeep and truck and not any of the smaller cars—the hill is rocky and slippery and they careen headlong through several deep puddles leftover from the rain the night before. Iris even carefully crosses a small but rushing creek. 

After another subjective eternity where Len is cold and uncomfortable, slightly bruised, and about to die because _Barry Allen is in his lap_ , they finally roll to a stop. 

“This is, technically, private property,” Barry says to Len as Lisa and Iris climb out and Eddie pushes up the passenger seat. “I don’t know if they told you. So, we have to be really quiet and careful about the flashlights.” 

“A rule-breaker, Barry?” Len drawls with a crooked grin. “Seems a bit… reckless,” Len finishes slowly as Barry crawls out after Eddie, giving Len a really spectacular view. 

“Lenny’s one to talk,” Lisa snorts. 

Barry looks at him as Len climbs out, all of them haloed by the truck lights behind them. “Oh?” He asks, interested, and Len has a weird urge to brag about some of the dumber things he’s done. Not—not what Lewis made him do. Not what led him to juvie and meeting Mick. But the stuff after, when Granddad took them in and he was a stupid, angry kid drawing graffiti murals on walls and the sides of trains at night and running like hell from the cops the few times they almost caught him, knowing he wouldn't—couldn't—disappoint Granddad, not after all he’d done for him and Lisa. 

Just then, though, the rest of group start trickling up to them, trying to laugh silently as they jostle each other. The truck’s headlights turn off, pitching everyone in absolute darkness. A few flashlights turn on, pointed to the ground so all Len can see of anyone are their shins and shoes. 

They hike further up the hill, silent except for occasional hushed whispers—like the Jeep and truck didn’t cause enough racket to make whoever was nearby well enough aware of their presence. Finally, they break the tree line and take a few steeper steps where Len’s thighs burn before the way suddenly flattens out. Smooth rock—great slabs of it jutted together like an ill-fitting jigsaw puzzle—is under their feet. Smaller, sparsely spaced trees and bushes creep up the hill to the sides of them, giving a casually sinister, slowly encroaching impression. 

“We’re going to be eaten by bears,” Lisa deadpans in resignation. A round of nervous giggling sounds from a few others. 

“Shh,” someone reprimands. 

“We’ve been coming up here since freshman year and haven’t seen a bear yet,” Cisco tries to assure, though he's still shushed.

“The shushing is louder than the whispering,” Len points out. 

“There’s a rumor,” Barry says, out of nowhere, his mouth close enough to Len’s ear that he can feel his breath on his skin. “That about six years ago the property’s owner chased some of the students here off with a shotgun.”

“That’s what you think?” Len asks, turning his face and speaking lowly in Barry’s ear. He swears that he can feel Barry shiver next to him. And it just seems so clandestine and unreal—a dream. In the dark with a canopy of stars above them, whispering to the vague lines of each other. It’s dizzying and Len is grateful for the cold night air. 

He can’t see Barry at all, but he imagines the slow grin anyway. “Personally? I think that the owner knows and doesn’t care as long as we don’t mess anything up.”

And then Barry is pulled away from him by someone else—Cisco, maybe, but it’s hard to tell. They busy themselves to the side, daring to turn on the flashlight a few times, and Len finally realizes that they’re setting up a telescope. He hears the rush of air and movement, feels Lisa’s hand tug him down to where the others had been busy setting up a nest of blankets on top of the rocks. They lay together, squished up and silent, the cold of the rocks emanating through their blankets. The wind rustles through the trees, making branches click and leaves crackle. Len imagines the night stalking round them, kept at bay by their loose circle of heartbeats. 

But laid out like they are, Len can’t see the trees or the bushes or any of the people with him. 

His world is stars. The night is so dark and the stars are so bright the constellations blaze in easy recognition. He imagines he can see star clusters—distant galaxies—with his naked eye. And it all gleams in a sky that is an endless arc of color. Dark blues with strokes of deep purples, slightly lighter blues, and the stars burning forth light that is beautiful and incomprehensible. 

He knows he will paint this, later, and he knows he will doubt his ability to capture this moment when he’s done. The hush. The night a shapeless, pacing beast with eyes that watch their every breath. The furtive secrecy of their presence on restricted land. The way their words float within them like water rising and pressing against the seal of their lips. The sky with its depth of color. The stars traversing above them, numerous and sentient. 

Because he’s watching the sky so intently, he sees one of the first meteors, a streak of light as fine as a pinpoint, flaring and then gone in a blink. 

“It’s starting,” someone whispers. 

There’s footsteps as the ones who were at the telescope shuffle blindly to them. Len feels someone sit and lay next to him. The air shifts with soft cologne, clothes, shampoo, and Len knows it’s Barry, knows because he’d spent almost half an hour with Barry on his lap. 

More meteors beam sporadically across the sky. Len hears Barry breathe out in wonder. 

He feels movement and then cold fingers brush his. 

“Len?” Barry whispers, tentative, and so low Len almost misses it. 

Len hesitates only briefly, thinking of Van Gogh and Picasso. In the end, he can’t help but hold Barry’s hand, and adds another mystifying layer to the painting in his mind. 

And, like the universe was waiting for this one moment, the meteor shower starts in earnest, a muted celestial race zooming along the curve of the world. 

Barry tilts toward him so his lips are right at Len’s ear again. “What are you thinking?” 

“'How could I possibly paint this?’” Len answers honestly. 

A beat passes. Barry’s fingers press into his hand. “Tell me how you want to paint it. Tell me what you see.”

Len turns to Barry, puts his lips close to his ear, and tells him. 

end.

**Author's Note:**

> [@wonderingtheblue on tumblr :)](https://wonderingtheblue.tumblr.com/)


End file.
